Breaking Free
by cheride
Summary: Another case, another bad guy, another problem.  And there are all sorts of ways to be bound.


_**Breaking Free**_- _cheride_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: T_

**AN:** A little over a year ago, S.T.A.R. for Brian Keith published volume one of the CD-zines designed to support the campaign to have a very talented actor recognized on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. This is just one of the stories that originally appeared in that first 'zine, _Pastiche a Trois_, and we're eternally grateful to everyone who has supported—and continues to support—our cause.

* * *

Hardcastle was struggling against the bonds holding him. McCormick could see him straining, trying to break free, though seeing was becoming more difficult with each passing minute. Blood had been dripping into his eyes for what seemed like hours now, though, he supposed, time had mostly lost its meaning. But it had been long enough for the blood to run slowly from the gash on his head into his left eye, obscuring his vision even before it had dried, matting into his lashes, gumming the corner of his eye together.

And it had certainly been long enough for his right eye to swell from two well-placed blows to the side of his face, leaving that line of sight nothing more than a mere squint. He stared across the small, barren room, watching the judge struggle, but everything was fuzzy and gray and damp. He thought maybe there had been a tear or two mingled with the blood at some point in the long night, but he was hoping Hardcastle hadn't noticed that part.

"You gotta get us out of here, Judge," he rasped. He hated to put the pressure on the older man; he knew Hardcastle was doing all he could, but he was beginning to have serious doubts that it was going to be enough.

Though he couldn't see what restraints were holding the judge, McCormick himself was tied to a water pipe in the middle of the room. With his hands cuffed behind him, and his feet tied to the pipe, he was almost completely immobile. Escape would've been out of the question even without the noose that had been looped around his neck and tied just above his head, forcing him to remain still and upright, even as the repeated beatings had made that more and more difficult.

But McCormick thought the most infuriating thing about the entire ordeal was that it had all been completely unexpected. Things had been fine, business as usual, and then—all of a sudden—this disaster. No doubt it had something to do with the Malloy case, though it had never occurred to him they'd made the guy so mad already. Hell, it had only been a few days, really, and they hadn't even been making much progress. He thought sometimes the bad guys could stand to loosen up just a little.

He squinted across the room again, taking some comfort in knowing the judge hadn't given up. He could hear the muffled grunts of Hardcastle's struggles, though he hadn't spoken aloud at all. Mark thought he must be gagged, but it occurred to him then that he would've really liked to hear the man's voice.

"This sucks, Hardcase," he said with a small sigh.

But before he had time to consider the unfairness of it all, he could hear the door lock releasing. "He's back," he whispered frantically, though he was sure that was unnecessary. He could hear the other man's renewed intensity, though it seemed just as futile as it had been all along.

The door pushed open, letting a slash of light into the shadowy concrete room. McCormick drew in a deep breath as a black-clad figure glided toward him, though that served as an immediate reminder of the cracked ribs he'd been trying to ignore. He was reminding himself not to do that again when he felt a fist driven into his side.

McCormick gasped in pain, and coughed, but practice had taught him not to double over. His head remained against the pipe, giving him just enough slack on the noose.

"We were beginning to think you'd forgotten about us," he said to Malloy when the coughing had subsided. He thought he saw Hardcastle grimace and shake his head at him, but it seemed unlikely he was truly capable of making out that kind of detail, so he chalked it up to imagination. "Are you ready to tell us yet what it is you want?"

"I want you to go away," the goon said simply as he delivered a quick karate chop to Mark's throat. "Forever."

This time, McCormick couldn't help it; his head lolled forward, tightening the noose around his neck. Hardcastle's grunts picked up again immediately, and somewhere through the haze, McCormick was sure he could hear the words: 'I'm doing what I can, kid, but you've got to do your part.' He forced his head back up before the grayness could claim him completely.

But it was a short-lived victory. Before McCormick had even registered the gun in Malloy's hand, two shots rang out. And before he could completely identify the idea that the rounds had been fired into his thighs, making it impossible to stay on his feet, his body had sagged as far as the noose would allow.

And then the man was jamming the gun into a pocket, and gliding back toward the door. But just before he exited, he cast one last look at McCormick. "You did this to yourself."

Somehow, McCormick wasn't surprised.

He could still hear the judge struggling, though he could no longer see. He hated this whole thing. Hated that it was going to happen this way; hated that whatever he had done had caused it; and hated that Hardcastle would feel responsible, even though there was nothing he could've done.

The gray was becoming black, and McCormick knew he wasn't coming out this time. He found the strength for one more deep breath and croaked out a farewell.

"I'm sorry."

And even in the growing darkness, he could still hear Hardcastle straining against the bonds that held him.

00000

It was still dark when McCormick opened his eyes again, though not as gray or fuzzy. He thought that was a good sign.

Then he blinked a couple of times and realized he was in his bed, wrapped in a tangle of damp bed sheets. He swiped a hand across his forehead, pushing the sweat-matted hair out of his eyes, and tried to come to grips with the idea that he'd been dreaming.

But before he could get his brain completely on board with that idea, a flood of memories poured into his mind: their last case—Patrick Malloy, a high-class con-man who'd been playing with them for days; Hardcastle's growing frustration with the way the guy kept slipping away; and, finally, his own decision to sneak into the man's palatial home looking for the evidence to put an end to the games once and for all.

He shook his head quietly, and thought. He still wasn't sure which bothered him more—the fact that he hadn't found what he'd wanted, or that he'd been identified anyway.

Just last night, not long after Hardcastle had delivered a vociferous objection to the unauthorized excursion, Frank Harper had called to say that Malloy's fancy estate had featured an equally fancy video security system. The news had been delivered over the speakerphone in the den, with Hardcastle's face growing ever darker. Of course, McCormick had already known about the cameras, and had dressed appropriately, including an uncharacteristic ski mask. But that was the sort of defense best kept to oneself, so the young man hadn't offered any response.

It hadn't mattered; Harper's next comments had been very pragmatic. 'You know, the build is right, and one of the exterior cameras got a glimpse of some kind of a red car. Nothing full on, but anyone who knows him is gonna put it together. I'm not the only one who's gonna recognize him, and I'm betting he doesn't have an alibi.'

That's when Hardcastle had snatched up the receiver and finished the call himself. But his side of the conversation had been grim enough on its own, right down to his resigned farewell; 'I'll bring him down tomorrow morning.'

There had been another argument after that, though, in retrospect, McCormick thought maybe he'd been too scared to argue effectively. And besides, there really wasn't much point; he'd never known Hardcastle to back down. So he'd become resigned to the fact that he'd be turning himself in, no matter how bad an idea it seemed.

He'd finally just told the judge he was going to enjoy one last night in his own bed and stalked toward the door. The last thing he'd heard was Hardcastle's chagrined accusation, "I've been trying hard to keep your ass out of prison lately; you oughta think about doing your part."

With a heavy sigh, he rolled over and glanced out the window. Barely dawn. Still, no point in going back to sleep now, and he'd rather not risk slipping back into his nightmare.

Not that being wide-awake wasn't enough of a nightmare right about now.

But, he was supposed to tune up the 'Vette for the judge, and it seemed he was almost out of time. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself out of bed and pulled on the nearest set of clothes.

He'd padded as far as the first step before he lurched to a stop and felt anger settle into his gut. He glared down at the older man seated on the sofa and continued his descent. He passed Hardcastle without comment as he steered himself for the bathroom, took a few minutes longer inside than was strictly necessary so that he could contain his anger, then stepped back out into the living area.

"You didn't trust me to stay?" he demanded coldly. Maybe the anger wasn't as contained as he'd thought.

Hardcastle's eyebrow shot up in what appeared to be genuine surprise. "What?"

"You're standing guard," Mark clarified flatly.

"No," Hardcastle objected, and the surprise carried into his voice, too.

McCormick sighed, and dropped down onto the other end of the sofa. "Then what're you doin' here, Judge?"

Hardcastle hesitated a moment before mumbling a reply. "Just couldn't sleep. Thought I'd come over in case you were awake, too." He jerked his chin toward the sleeping loft. "Sounded like you were havin' kind of a rough night of your own."

McCormick shrugged. "I've had worse." He thought for a flash that he should take that back, but what the hell. The guy was sending him back to prison. He really needed to keep some distance here.

"Look, McCormick—"

Mark held up a hand to forestall the lecture, then pushed himself to his feet again. "I've got some work to do on the 'Vette," he said, heading for the door.

"_That's_ what you want to do this morning?"

McCormick didn't like the barely disguised pain in Hardcastle's voice. One of them ought to get through this. He closed his eyes briefly and steeled himself, and didn't turn back. "No," he said frostily, "what I really want to do is go downtown and turn myself in for burglarizing a low-life scum's house so I can give up the next few years of my life for absolutely nothing. But I figure I oughta do my chores first."

"Mark."

Dammit. _Distance_, he reminded himself, as he froze with his hand on the door. But Hardcastle seemed to have a different idea.

"About turning yourself in," the judge was saying, almost sadly. "The thing is, the law—"

"I know all about the law, Judge," McCormick interrupted, finally turning to face his friend. "I don't need another lecture. I already told you we'd do this your way. I'll turn myself in." He sagged slightly against the door, letting it absorb some of his weight. Even saying the words was difficult; he couldn't imagine how he was actually going to _do_ it.

"I wasn't going to lecture," Hardcastle said defensively.

"Sorry," the young man muttered, but then he spoke more sincerely. "I really am sorry, Judge. I didn't want it to end like this." He offered a tiny, sad smile, and hoped that Hardcastle at least understood that he never caused these problems intentionally.

But the judge didn't answer right away, and even the small smile that McCormick had mustered slipped from his face. As he waited for a response—he would've settled for just about anything—he studied the older man's face, and was surprised by what he saw there. Uncertainty was not a normal expression for Hardcastle, and McCormick wasn't sure what it meant. The judge seemed to be straining to find exactly the right thing to say, but Mark didn't think he could help with that. He was just about to give up on an answer entirely and head on outside, when Hardcastle finally spoke again. It wasn't what McCormick was expecting.

"Malloy called last night."

"That took some guts," McCormick huffed. "What did he want?"

"He knows you were the one in his house."

McCormick nodded slightly, barely a movement at all, as he tried to piece together whatever Hardcastle wasn't saying. "Well," he managed, "I _was_ kinda surprised he didn't dish up my name when he filed the complaint. He isn't stupid."

"True enough," Hardcastle said slowly, still the very picture of hesitation, clearly struggling so hard to say the right thing. "But what I was going to say about the law," he continued, "is that sometimes it's not exactly black and white. It can be more gray than people think."

McCormick snorted. A couple of years back, this guy had sent him up for driving his own car. And just a few months ago, he'd heard the judge sum up his feelings on the criminal justice system pretty succinctly: _You got your legal and your illegal. I'm for legal._ He didn't think gray was on Hardcastle's palette.

"He's willing to withdraw the burglary complaint," Hardcastle said suddenly.

Mark sucked in a quick breath and stiffened against the door. He didn't allow himself to hope, not even for a second, because the next question was obvious. "In exchange for what?"

"He wants us off the case."

So that explained the judge's uneasiness; his options had gone from bad to worse. McCormick didn't have to consider his next statement.

"He can go to hell."

"That's the first thing I told him, too."

"Good," Mark answered, "because I'd never ask you to do that."

"I know you wouldn't," Hardcastle answered confidently.

That assurance finally broke the trance that had been holding McCormick in place. He turned and reached for the doorknob, only to be stopped again by Hardcastle's next words.

"But the thing that I was trying to say about the law, is that you always have to consider the greater good. Right and wrong should matter."

McCormick shook his head slightly, wiped the confused guilt from his face, and padded back into the living area. He straddled a dining chair and gazed at Hardcastle intently.

"We don't make deals with the bad guys, Judge."

"We also don't let innocent people go to prison," Hardcastle countered.

That idea made a lot of sense, McCormick had to admit, especially having been on the receiving end when Hardcastle seemed to think differently. On the other hand . . .

"Not to dwell on a touchy subject, Hardcase, but I'm not strictly innocent in this case. And, in any case, Malloy sure as _hell_ isn't innocent. We're not letting him off the hook."

Hardcastle smiled slightly. "I thought you might say that."

"Good, then let's—"

"That's why I didn't ask you first," the judge broke in.

McCormick's jaw dropped. "What? Judge, no. I don't want—"

Hardcastle held up a palm. "I've been thinking about this all night, McCormick."

McCormick didn't bother pointing out that he'd apparently been _dreaming_ about it all night, which he thought ought to trump _thinking_; he just waved a hand and let the judge continue.

"Besides, it's not as bad as you think. Malloy seems to think we're the only people trying to bust up his action."

"Well, that's just because we're the only ones who've been in his face for the past week. Didn't you tell him that the cops came to us for a change? That we were only helping out?"

"Ah," Hardcastle hedged, "I might not've been completely clear on that."

"Hardcastle! You made a deal with a lie? He's gonna come after us with more than a prison sentence. I won't put you in the middle of that."

The judge hiked up an eyebrow. "You just keep forgetting who's in charge around here."

McCormick smiled slightly. "Hardly." He didn't add that agreeing to let himself be locked up would never have been _his_ first choice; he was pretty sure Hardcastle could figure that one out for himself. "But when Malloy figures out you've double-crossed him and drops a dime on me for good, no one's gonna be around to haul your butt outta whatever fire he sets for you." He shook his head. "That's not gonna happen."

Hardcastle smiled himself, and McCormick was touched by the hint of pride in the expression.

"Listen, kiddo," the older man began, "let me just lay it out for you, because I've already worked it out. I'm not double-crossing him. Malloy's the one who called me; he's the one who came up with the deal. And, yeah, he might kind of have the idea that I'm running the show instead of just one of the players, and maybe I didn't set him straight on that. But I _did_ tell him that the cops were already involved, and I told him I wouldn't call them off, not even for you." He looked a little guilty at that last bit and hurried on. "He knows they're still working the case, but he thinks he's been steering clear of the cops for a long time now, and he's right about that. He says he can finish up the job he's on and then lay low for a while, if we'll just back off." He took a small breath. "I'm willing to bet he's wrong."

Mark spent a moment examining his friend, weighing the cost of even this small breach of Hardcastle doctrine against the wholly absurd idea of demanding that he be allowed to offer a confession that would land him behind bars for the foreseeable future. The choice was more difficult than he would've imagined.

"Are you sure they can get him?" he finally asked softly. "They _did_ come to us for help."

Hardcastle appeared to consider that for a moment. "I'm _pretty_ sure."

McCormick appreciated the honest answer, though he would've preferred something more confident. Not that he was feeling particularly sure of himself, either, as he tried one last clarification. "Look, Judge, you don't have to do this. I mean, I understand that I brought this on myself. And as much as I appreciate you trying to make it go away, there are lines I don't expect you to cross. I know you don't approve of what I did, and you think mistakes should have consequences, so—"

"Wait a minute." Hardcastle shifted on the sofa, leaning forward suddenly and reducing the already small space that separated them. "Are you telling me you think I _want_ you to go to prison?"

The younger man drew back unconsciously. "No, but—"

"Or that this is about teaching you some kinda lesson?"

That answer seemed a little less clear-cut. "Well . . ."

"Dammit, McCormick, weren't you listening to anything I said? Wait a minute. Don't answer that. If you'd been listening, none of this woulda happened in the first place."

McCormick opened his mouth to retort, but—as usual—Hardcastle was right, so he just gritted his teeth and waited for the man to finish.

"What I told you last night," Hardcastle continued, picking up steam, "is that turning yourself in would be better than waiting for a warrant to be served. And that's still true; a guy with your history really doesn't wanna be sittin' around waiting for the authorities to put all the pieces together, not when you have a different side of the story that they're not likely to consider.

"But that doesn't mean I think you oughta be inside; it just means that I thought you goin' forward was the lesser of the evils. Malloy gave us another option, that's all." Hardcastle pulled a hand slowly across tired features and gave a long-suffering look. "Are we clear on that now?"

"We're clear," McCormick answered, holding the other man's gaze. "But, Judge, are you _sure_? I want us to do the right thing."

And though McCormick might always wonder where he had found the strength for such insistence, he thought that this moment—when he saw the judge finally break free of the lingering uncertainty and his face fill with a clear and complete faith—would've been worth any risk.

"I'm sure, kiddo," Hardcastle answered steadily. "You're gonna stay here, help me round up some more bad guys, and let _them_ spend some time behind bars for a while. _That's_ the right thing, and that's what we're gonna do. The cops can take care of Malloy."

Mark couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face, but he didn't have time for any joyous proclamations of gratitude before Hardcastle continued.

"Oh, and the other thing we're gonna do, McCormick, is try and tone down some of your natural inclinations before they get us into trouble we can't get out of. Is that clear?"

McCormick nodded vigorously; even the stern tone couldn't stop the relief from settling over him. "It's clear," he replied quickly, "it's absolutely clear." Then he winked, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. "Believe it or not, I really haven't forgotten who's in charge."

Hardcastle flashed a grin as he pushed himself to his feet. "Glad to hear it." Then he jerked a thumb in the general direction of outside. "Now, whatta ya say I show you who's in charge under the net?"

"You can give it your best shot," McCormick grinned in return as he followed the older man out the door and toward the basketball court.

He stood for a moment, breathing in the cool morning air, watching the judge take his warm-up shots, and trying not to think how close he'd just come to not standing here ever again.

But he couldn't ignore the idea that he'd been willing to give it up, just because Hardcastle said so. And, he also couldn't ignore the fact that the judge had been willing to bend his rules to ensure he didn't _have_ to give it up.

He had a flash of thought that maybe, in some strange way, this unusual custody arrangement was the key that was going to set them both free.

Then he pushed the unexpected thought aside, shook his head with a small smile, and stepped onto the court.


End file.
